


Services Rendered

by spicedrobot



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Biting, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Edging, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Manhandling, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, because it's my fic and i get to choose the kinks, charon has monster qualities, kind of, quid pro quo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: No one shortchanges Charon, not even Hermes.
Relationships: Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 223





	Services Rendered

Hermes flits along the giant vertebrae embedded in the tile, rubbing the cold from his arms. Outside the temple is knee-high with fresh snow, and no amount of speed keeps Demeter’s chill at bay.

For once, he carries no souls, only correspondence, boons, and coin to pass along. Charon doesn’t seem to mind, just groans quietly as he looks over the baubles he would no doubt offer to Zagreus next time he comes around. 

“Coz’s getting quicker, y’know. Been keeping track,” Hermes says. “How many times has he made it here? Five? Six?”

Charon moans, nodding.

Hermes always has somewhere to be and something to deliver, but he enjoys visiting with his professional associate. The god of swiftness and the Stygian Boatman have that in common, camaraderie hewn by centuries of meeting at the edges of their worlds. He likes to think they have an understanding, psychopomps in arms, even if he’s the only one that ever talks. 

Hermes lets his eyes wander to the shelves of inventory faintly lit by the candelabrum, leaning against the table to get a better look.

“Seems like the escape attempts are good for business. Can’t imagine what you’ll do with all the surplus.” 

A faint chill coils through the air, prickling along his nape. It’s much unlike the cold outside, still and close and focused. Hermes turns instinctively.

Charon is no longer studying his newest acquisitions. Instead, he’s studying Hermes. The boatman extends his hand, palm up, and moans in a low, strange timbre that Hermes is fairly sure he’s never heard before.

“Ah! A little short this time; forgot to pick up payment from Dionysus. Ordered one too many rounds last he was earthside. I’ll bring the obols day after next?”

Not very professional of him, but he’d been fair and honorable with Charon for eons. Surely one slip up wouldn’t be—

Charon moans again, that same, unfamiliar rumble. Hazy tendrils roll from his mouth with the sound. His hand bobs. Insistent. 

“I promise to bring it just as soon as I can! Right now if you’d like...” Hermes trails off as Charon shakes his head, slowly, once.

 _Ah_ , Hermes thinks as he begins to panic. He’d heard about this somewhere—Thanatos, maybe—should’ve known better. Gods are stubborn, wrathful folk, Charon being no exception. For the boatman, everything is an exchange.

Obols or blood.

Hermes tentatively raises his hands as Charon steps forward. “Let’s not be hasty. Hah.” He winces.

Hermes has never been the tallest of gods, but Charon _looms_ so intensely he feels no bigger than a mortal, the flickering candlelight eclipsed completely by the brim of his hat.

Agility and wit fail him utterly as his back meets the hard edge of the table. Charon’s eyes are ghostly coals in the shadows. The boatman raises his hand.

Hermes braces himself—surely if Zagreus died several times over, it couldn’t be that bad—embarrassing, of course, but he could sneak out of the underworld without much notice. Maybe—probably— 

Charon cups Hermes’s cheek, and every half-formed plea dies in his throat. 

His hand is huge, fingers and palms calloused, touch cool but not cold, like a late night in summer. A thumb traces gently over his chin.

“C-Charon?” Hermes breathes. 

His gaze slides to Hermes’s mouth. Softly he presses, the boatman’s thumb divoting his bottom lip. Hermes can smell the resin on his skin, faintly sweet and sharp.

Charon leans down slowly, veiled in shadow and vapor, but Hermes doesn’t turn away. Parchment dry skin, smooth bone, cool against his heated mouth. Hermes gasps, inhaling Charon’s breath. Gentler than thymiaterion smoke, the taste of cloves and citrus tingling on his tongue, perfuming his throat. It’s the smell of Charon’s robes whenever he had lingered a bit too close, the source richer, headier. His heart thunders against his ribs, and Hermes’s fingers cinch into the boatman’s himation, disturbing the chain of obols around his shoulders.

Hermes tries to joke, to tease; a shaky, smoky exhalation is all he manages. Charon kisses the vapor from his lungs, hand sliding along his nape, holding him fast, and Hermes opens himself to the cool slide of tongue that quickly heats against his own. Low groans reverberating, a shocked punched out noise. The boatman’s tongue is longer than it should be, twisting and seeking, sliding over his, a dangerous drag of teeth; heat blooms in his belly with startling immediacy.

“This is payment?” Hermes gasps against his mouth when Charon finally relents. “Not what I would call professional—”

A long and laborious groan in response. Hermes wonders if he’ll ever be able to hear Charon again without thinking of this, without remembering the taste in his mouth, the chill on his lips. 

Hands clutch at Hermes’s belted waist. An embarrassed yelp as he’s placed on the table. A knee slots between his thighs, vaporous purple spilling into him from a newly warmed mouth. Charon’s greedy, of course he is, would take what is owed no matter the currency. Maybe it _is_ professional in the boatman’s mind, but it’s hard to believe with a hardness catching against his own.

Hermes can’t stay still, he never can, slips his hands about Charon’s middle, tugs him forward, shifts his hips in hurried, needy jerks. An eternity spent spilling his every thought in the boatman’s quiet presence, within that endlessly watchful gaze—his tunic slips upward, led by the hungry urgings of the boatman. Charon grabs the band around his thigh and tugs, ripping a strangled sound from Hermes’s throat.

“L-like that, don’t you?” Hermes says, voice shaking, mirthful. “Given this some thought?”

Charon groans, slips his fingers under the band, gropes the hidden skin. His muscles jump beneath the pads of his fingers, sensation ticklish, devilish, burning through his guts. Hermes squirms, wings twitching, nerves positively buzzing. He never knew the old boatman had it in him. 

Fingertips trail along his legs as Charon sinks to his knees. Hermes catches his lower lip between his teeth, anticipatory, astonished. Never had he seen Charon kneel, a being worthy of a god’s worship, ancient and terrible. He shivers, gently threads his fingers into Charon’s hair. It’s softer than he thought it would be—wait, when had he thought about that—

His winged boots are plucked off in two swift tugs.

“Charon, that’s hardly necessary—”

Then Charon’s standing, moving. 

Hermes isn’t proud of the sound he makes when the boatman flips him face down on the table. He scrambles for purchase, the balls of his feet barely able to reach the floor. Charon draws his arms to the small of his back, one over the other, grips them with a single fist, moans against the shell of his ear. There’s strength in that grip, Hermes knows, has seen it first hand, the power mapped in every callous, payment exacted, swift and precise. It’s more than just the nick of teeth that has Hermes grinding fruitlessly into the table. Scarf tugged away, tingling coolness tailing heat as Charon peppers his neck with bites, tasting each fresh mark. His muscles flex in Charon’s hold, and the boatman presses him down in an instant, an unyielding weight of chiton and gold and the unknown form within. Hermes thrashes, partly instinctual, partly wanting to see what Charon would do, how swiftly he would move, how cruelly. 

A warning groaned into his abused neck, the taste of incense flooding, disorienting. The boatman’s hips snap forward, the eager line of his cock pressing against the cloth wrappings that serve to preserve what modesty Hermes has left. 

Familiar softness threads around his forearms. His scarf, he realizes with a skipped beat, tightening, tied. Another sick, thrilling rush—tricks, dangers, wagers, as much part of him as messages and swiftness. This too, the unraveling of his underclothes to the coolness of the temple, his thighs spread by rough-skinned hands, his cock drawn from between his belly and the table, thick and aching. Hermes swears, twisting his fingers into the fabric of his scarf, giving him something to do other than beg and grunt as Charon drags his fist down his cock once, twice, so close he feels the boatman’s breath shivering over his skin. The boatman’s name is a plea on his lips before he can stop himself.

Cool wetness drags along one cheek, closer, inward. Hermes tries to reel back, but the balls of his feet slide uselessly against the tile. Charon groans, the sound so close to a laugh. 

Hermes shudders all over, half-miffed, half-shocked. “Stop teasing.”

Another firm stroke to his cock, thumb pressing just beneath his glans. The drag is smooth and tight, _gods_ , he’s leaking over Charon’s fist, unable to do anything but tremble and swear as his cock pulses dangerously. Then the tip of Charon’s tongue slips inside him, and Hermes bites off a yell.

It’s strange and cold right until it isn’t, each inch another burst of coolness until it warms within him, all the while Charon strokes his cock, slow and cruel, in time with the thrust of his tongue. More and more, coiling and sliding, pistoning in bursts before shoving deep, stretching him, fucking him.

Hermes’s babbling, too close, all electric and breathless like he’d just run across the world. Charon keeps shifting, twisting, shallow little presses of his tongue, grinding inside him, opening him up.

“W..wait... _Charon_ …” Hermes manages, “‘m gonna…!”

Hand and mouth quicken, the smoothness of skull presses flush against his body. That’s it, the snapping crest of pleasure—pain—a vice grip at the base of his cock, a high, ugly sound following a peel of curses so cruel Hermes doesn’t even know what he’s saying. A deep, satisfied groan vibrates inside him, another almost laugh that has him teetering at the edge of madness.

“C-cruel! Damn you,” he thrashes uselessly, until the nearly there touch of orgasm fades, until that tongue undulates again, yanking him back to the brink. “P-please!” And how Hermes burns with it; he had never thought himself particularly proud, but prostrated like this has him crazed, painfully helpless, needing more. 

“L-look, just take your pound of flesh. It’s yours!” His voice breaks, fading. “I’m yours.”

Charon withdraws, and for a heartbreaking moment, leaves Hermes open, empty, desperate. He whines against the table, smearing the bit of saliva pooling beneath his chin. Then fabric against the backs of his thighs, a bottle uncorking, low, wet _schlicks_. Hermes cranes to look over his shoulder.

A swift pressure at his neck, rough fingers overlaying fresh bruises.

“So stingy,” Hermes moans weakly, “wanna see you—”

Slick fingers slip inside him, perfunctory and brief, then something cool and wet and blunt, kissing against him. Hermes would give anything for his boots, the power to brace, to push back against Charon’s cock. Thankful then, that Charon doesn’t go slow. Both greedy, and in that moment, Hermes’s has never been gladder for it.

His mouth spills open on a string of _yesyesyes—Charon, thank gods—_ his cock’s thick, strangely tapered, widening him until it’s nearly too much, bone-smooth hips kissing slick skin. Charon moans, a cool gust along his neck, citrus, cloves, vapor. He shivers, teetering with pain-sharp pleasure.

The edges of his chiton tossed up and over his bound arms, Charon’s hands clutching his hips, tugging Hermes back on his cock, quick and mean and punching out his breath. Hermes doesn’t have the capacity to warn, to speak, to realize—he comes with a bitten off yell, body quaking and throbbing, seed spilling upon the ancient tile.

Charon’s hips stumble for a beat, shock, perhaps, before the greed overwhelms. Hermes can’t feel his legs, jellied and useless, lower half molten and shivery. Thankful, so thankful, he didn’t have to beg Charon to keep going, unsure if he could form the words.

The boatman does not take his time, a brutal pace that echoes through the temple, that shakes the ancient, sturdy table beneath. Hermes is dizzy with it—so few could go at his pace, could give him exactly what he needed. Ichor on his lips, bitten and swollen, voice hoarse and weak. His scarf nearly gives beneath his wringing hands. He’s throbbing with renewed interest when Charon stills, full weight crushing, hips stuttering, burying as deep as he can go. Vaguely, Hermes feels the pulsing inside him, a deep, toe-curling ache, a final swear dropping lazily from his lips. 

His low groan joins Charon’s as the boatman withdraws, slowly, like he’s loathe to give him up. Hermes slips his arms from the scarf, blood pounding back into his limbs with a start as he catches his breath. His whole body aches, but it’s a problem for later, especially when his cock hangs heavy between his legs. Stiffly, he reaches down; again, the world spins, shifts, shadows and coals and vaporous breath as he stares up into Charon’s face.

“It’s enough?” Hermes asks hoarsely, tinged with a whine. Again he reaches for himself, but Charon presses his hand away, grips his cock. No teasing, no cruelty, just a handful, of firm, even pumps, grit teeth and a broken, hurt sound as Hermes spills over his fist, near seedless and shaking. “I…’m out.”

Charon nods. He draws his hand to his mouth, tastes the seed upon his fingers. Hermes tosses his arm over his face as his dick gives a half-hearted attempt to harden again. Quick refractory period a boon and a curse.

Damp roughness shifts between his legs. A cloth, Hermes realizes with a start.

“You don’t have to do that,” Hermes murmurs. Somehow, Charon cleaning him is more embarrassing than when he was begging. Ginger, nearly chaste presses brings renewed, tired heat. Charon wraps his underclothes with shocking precision. “How do you know how to do that?” He peeks at him from behind a forearm, eyes narrowed.

Charon groans dismissively. 

“I’ll let it go this time.”

It’s impossible to avoid the marks on his neck as he reaffixes his scarf, grazing the more tender bruises, stifling a shiver. Charon goes strangely still. Hermes ignores it, he has to, else he might find himself bent over every surface in this hallowed place, and he thinks that Charon would be more than eager.

He takes his boots from the boatman's hands, fastens them with his head down, willing his stubborn flush to fade.

“Glad we could sort that out amicably," Hermes says as he stands, hand pressed hard to the table, happy that he can manage being upright for the time being. "Maybe I should come up short more often, yeah?” 

Charon stares, soundless, then he looks away.

“Seriously? Is that embarrassment? You sly old boatman.” 

Hermes pushes his arm, gently ribbing, gently hungry. “Say the word and I’m yours.”

A slight pause, then the boatman groans softly, nods. Hermes smiles ear to ear.

“Great! Well, you know how it is. People to see, places to be!”

Hermes hesitates only a moment before he hovers up and kisses Charon’s cheek. The boatman tugs the tip of his hat.

As Hermes starts towards the temple entrance, he hesitates with a considering hum.

“Wait, wasn’t one of those gates closed before?” Hermes says. “I thought the satyr tunnels were always locked off.” 

Charon groans into his hand, while Hermes tips his head in silent question.


End file.
